


Time's Infinite for a Country

by Kokadin (Kondraki)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 'why are you putting engita in this shitfest' 'because ive lost control of my life', Gen, Magic, england breaks the universe and is grounded grounded grounded grounded grounded, its become gory im sorry mother
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-09-07 04:46:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8783671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kondraki/pseuds/Kokadin
Summary: When he was young, England didn't really realise the extent of his own abilities. Other nations didn't really care for magic, so he didn't know what to do when he felt he crossed the line. He chose to try and forget. But even if he did, the universe wouldn't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> may get more chapters depending on if u guys like this one on my new pseud for hetalia. it wont have plot but it will get more... strange

A thousand years of practice, being the amalgamation of a people who are intertwined with magic more than any other place on earth, and most of an island in terms of a power source. These are the main factors that make England so adept with magic. He devoted much of his time to the arts as a child, but often was mocked by nation peers.

Around the time he had the appearance of a common teenager, he was crabby. He had been told he was wasting time on the devil’s work, magic. Wasting time. He was inspired from spite.

 

_I’ll show you wasted time. I’ll show you time._

 

He has more years than any other mortal of refining his skills, and with his nation status he develops a spell far faster than any old mage.

A mage that had studied magic since five and was dedicated until their late death had nothing on him. A mage that had studied magic from the age of five would tell anyone that their spell that slows time by a fraction for a few seconds was a god’s work. And anyone with any experience of magic would agree.

But England is no ordinary mage. Yet he still shocks himself when his time-halting spell works for the first time, making the stone he threw halt in mid-air for three whole frozen seconds. This power scares him, and after refining these skills to include any amount of paused time he demanded and even rewinding it, he hides the tome containing the incantation away from fear.

But he had already tampered with time. He no longer even needs to perform a ritual.

The years pass. The memories fade. The powers don’t. Instead, they fester and grow, akin to an ivy plant left at the bottom of a wall, unchecked, and taking the whole house with it.

Occasionally he reminisces of past times. Rarer still, his memories fetch the time he had broken time. How he had seen time’s strings, and realised that there is no such thing as the future until it is determined by the present, and when he rewinds time he burns and destroys this string of time. He changes the topic and tries to focus on something in reality, that isn’t about rules of the universe and time unknown to any other living being – these facts a cold secret between him and the universe.

 

But even he knows the powers are still present.

 

The streets of London are loud today, despite how lonely and dark it is. Bright neon lights don't quite illuminate the sky. He knows how to tune it all out. But he can’t tune out the sounds of a sickly thud/squelch, a tire skid, and a sharp scream from his right.

He looks hesitantly and sees a taxi on the body of what seems to be a 14 year old girl with a woolly coat that has blood seeping through already. The blood that left his face returns in a flush of anger when he sees the driver, a lone man with a grimy beard and a phone held in front of the wheel. Behind the beard is sheer horror, but England doesn’t care. A feeling of consequences leaves him, and as he rips off the car door with sheer nation strength he tries to remember what could really be an absolute way to rid the inevitable. What, exactly, is telling him that nothing will be remembered.

England feels the answer hit him like a tsunami after the ocean disappears, and with this information he doesn’t even bother to explain how awful the man is before he breaks the driver’s head on the pavement outside. But his conscious holds him back from indulging in more damage like a small, sober friend of a drunk bodybuilder in a brawl with a man who stands no chance. England holds the man’s phone close.

The driver is grabbing for his taken phone to take an image of his aggressor and some passer-by’s have already done so, when suddenly the taxi driver is back behind the wheel, and no longer remembers the piece of burnt time when his skull was broken open by inhuman strength. He has a moment of fear when he realises his phone is no longer in his hands, and looks up. He panics even more when he notices he is on the path to hit a girl walking next to a strange man, and he swerves to avoid the kid – a closer miss than he would like to admit.

The driver has almost forgotten his phone entirely as he thinks of the strange glare the man with the big eyebrows gave him. Maybe he saw how uncomfortably close to hitting that child he was.

England shoves the stranger’s phone a little further down his coat pocket, and as he thinks of how easy the phone was to drag back in time with him was, he smirks and recalls how his past self panicked at this newfound power and tried to push it aside.

 

The 14 year old catalyst for all this, oblivious to their own erased death, sees his knowing smirk and wonders on the mystery of it as a single thought flashes in England’s mind;

 

_Life is going to be a little comfier now._

 


	2. Chapter 2

Wednesday rolls along, and a meeting does too. England is sitting in the usual spot, staring past the wall on the other side of the room. His notepad is full, and if Germany were to see the contents he would probably lose his temper. Nothing inappropriate, just a confusing array of cogs all over the page. England had begun the meeting by swiftly ignoring whoever was at the front, and drawing the strange cogs he saw when he closed his eyes and focused for too long. The cogs of time. Most mortals would go insane trying to process this sight. But England effectively owns these cogs, and wasn't a mortal either.

The sight wasn't really an eldritch creation to be revered, but rather a sight as typical as your coffee table to England. The main difference being that you wouldn't put your cup of tea on a cog of time. England probably would though, just to be that little bit extra.Though, it'd probably be blasted to the other side of the universe, and maybe even turned back in time to its core ingredients. He learnt this the hard way.

Lost in his thought, he doesn't notice how Italy stares at his paper. The other nation doesn't think of why he would draw such illegible, sketchy lines, but rather sees the beauty in his style, and is almost tempted to ask him to do something more advanced with paint. His eye can't leave the paper.

England, on the other hand, does not appreciate these finer arts. He stares at the paper before him, full and now useless to him. An idea rolls in, and he reaches into his mind and into time. He pulls a string, and with it comes the notebook from earlier: blank, and factory-smooth. The paper from two seconds ago, covered with pen and dented from its pressure, is now the sheet from an hour ago. A careless look to the left and right; no one was watching. But he doesn't care to look behind him, to the man still unable to peel his eyes from the paper - but now for a different reason.

His expression changes to confusion, and he knows he didn't just blink - something feels wrong. The feeling of seeing a photo, a screenshot of the past, wells in him and he glances to his sides. No one else sees. No one else has the same worry on their face. Everyone is facing forward or down at their desk, and some loneliness grows in the mix of feelings he has right now. He then feels doubt mix these ingredients together into a batter, and as he places this emotion cake in the oven he figures he was just imagining things. His feet wriggle under the cheap desk. England probably ripped off that page while he wasn't looking, and he closes the emotional oven door before he can think of the smoothness of this page, despite it's predecessor being indented. He internally walks away from the oven as he reminds himself to ask England later about his art.

Sure enough, the meeting ends with no resolution for the topic no one was paying attention to. After the incident of 'disappearing paper', the oven had continued cooking the batter of confusion and curiosity behind Italy's back. It was a now a moderate cake. England had also continued his drawings, filling up another page with strange cogs. This time he hadn't thought to erase it, and Italy walked up to him remembering how he drew the second page, but had never taken his eyes off the other's paper out of a paranoia he wouldn't admit.

Hesitating while he acknowledges his emotion cake briefly, Italy asks about his drawings. England pales for a moment, realising his mistake. He never checked the on row behind him, and if Italy saw him drawing, does that mean he saw him erase his initial drawing? Italy notices the blood run out of him, and figures that what he saw earlier wasn't a daydream.

The blood returns to his face as he remembers. He suppresses a chuckle. The sense of consequence fades, replaced by the knowledge nothing that happens now will be remembered. Unblinking, he walks away. His feet now making an echo on the old wood floor, he stares at France. He senses the glare he gets right before they fight, and the frenchman stops staring at the arches over the hall and admiring the shoddy architecture, and turns to face England. But the usual pre-fight glare is darker and colder. More of a pre-pointless-violence face.

He doesn't even see England's fist- he just feels it break his jaw. But he was the other side of the room two seconds ago, that makes no sense. He grabs France's shirt. He doesn't fall over thanks to this help, but France doesn't want that help - he wants to know why England threw a punch different from any other fight they have ever been in. It felt cold. Emotionally, of course, but physically it burnt like he had plucked his fist out of a forge. He looks to England's face to find an answer, but all he sees is a glimpse of a blank stranger before he suddenly vanishes into thin air. He staggers, no longer supported by the balled fist that held his shirt.

 

When did his laces get tied together?

 

A hand between his shoulder blades shoves him forward firmly. He lands flat on his chest, crumpling a piece of paper left in his blue suit ages ago. Others raise a suspicion to the unusual atmosphere of the usual fight, and Italy is already running across the room to do something. France holds his fist high, with much more power and intent than usual.

But then he is back behind his desk, dull, bored, and drawing small penises on his notepad. Halfway across the room, England's respective notepad has the first version of the array of cogs.

 

~*~

 

The end of the meeting comes, and Italy forgot about the drawings anyway. This time, he only saw the one page, but nothing memorable happened. Nothing he can remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is awfukl im so sorry i let you down mother


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rreally edgy chapte r here lads my fingers are covered in small lacerations from typing bcof the edge

America's gun stares at him from across the conference table.

 

 

The white noise of Germany’s begging for someone to pay attention goes unheard.

He wonders for a second.

_Maybe I should indulge. It's been a long week. A few extra hours longer for me._

_... What's wrong with me? I shouldn’t even think of doing that._

_...but I suppose it never really happened anyway._

 

Italy has been watching England for the meeting, slightly concerned for England’s stance on America bringing his gun when he goes. And even more concerned about the blank, stare that seems to be getting blanker by the second.

His eyes seem to lose colour for an instant. Then he isn’t there. No pop, he just disappears like an animation error.

Italy reels a little, blaming his mind instantly. Why would someone just disappear like that? 

 

 

England has been in frozen time for five minutes now.

 

America is floating in mid-air where England put him.

Each of America’s hairs stay exact, his eyes staring at what they think is the strange nick in his desk, but in this frozen place they stare at the ceiling.

England loads the gun. It feels lighter in the frozen world.

_My world._

 

He fires a shot at America. Or rather, tries to. He remembers that the function of multiple parts must be able to resume in time if he is not to snap the gun's workings.

He hits an internal resume button that bring the gun into frozen time's laws. He fires.

The bullet follows orders for a brief second, flying through America’s stomach. But after the bang, the bullet stops just behind America, carrying some blood hovering in mid-air and waiting to splatter on the world behind America’s torso.

Another bullet. Another bullet. Another bullet another bullet another bullet another-

 

The gun is now empty, and the previous contents all hovering behind America’s body, two behind the neck and four behind his torso.

His face still stares at the nick in his desk, completely unaware he is dead.

Time resumes. Italy sees the back of England’s chair suddenly appear. Without a pop. Just like an animation error.

 

He looks around the room for other concerned faces, but no one was looking. And he sees America’s chair empty.

A thud in the corridor mixed with a squelch. No one else hears, nor do they care.

But Italy does. He gets up and people presume he is going to the toilet, or is at least going to say that if questioned. Maybe he is off to make lunch, Russia thinks. He is bored blind and is getting more paper to doodle on, thinks Finland. Everyone thinks a slightly different tale, but no one thinks of the quiet thud they didn’t hear.

Italy turns a corner.

The plain brown carpet is interrupted by red.

A gun clings to England’s hand.

America is laying on the floor, breathing through a punctured oesophagus that is filling his lungs with blood.

But England didn’t aim for that, he aimed for the spine - the longest and most tedious thing to recover for nations.

He doesn’t realise this. All he thinks of is the sudden waves of pain where his body should be and how the ceiling appeared so suddenly.

England doesn’t realise Italy is behind him either, paling and shaking.

He thinks he and America are alone in this corridor, and drops the gun.

Like a child's doll, it bounces a little off the floor and stays.

He squats next to the human pincushion and America sees him, too.

 

 

Since Wednesday, he has worn that face many times.

To give himself more (unfrozen) time, England shoves two fingers in the neck holes he made.

A squelch and a snap disconnect the pieces left of the upper spine even more, making it even more of a pain for America to fix. And more pain in general.

He begins dragging off America, but hears a strange, erratic breathing behind him.

He wipes the blood off his hands and onto his clothes, and then registers Italy the other end of the corridor.

Italy turns tail and runs to get the other nations and thanks that they are presumably all still together by Germany’s voice in the next room still droning, but something flashes in front of him and he collides with it. No, him.

He looks up and sees England’s stare. The one America has been complaining about since Wednesday.

A scream doesn’t make it out of his mouth, and disappears entirely in surprise when this blank face hugs him. The blood that covers his clothes rubs off on Italy, but that isn’t his concern right now.

His hugs feels warm. Strangely warm. If we were talking about physical warmth, it would be from the blood pinned between then and the chunks of liver squashing.

But his hug felt genuine. Italy considers the idea he was hallucinating two seconds ago, but ignores the thought.

 

_I've already done this before, but Italy never caught me. Why do I care so much? Why do I want to undo this already?_

 

And with that, time flashes and Italy is staring at England’s lifeless expression in the audience of Germany’s droning. He sits comfortably in his seat, and feels more comfortable when England seems to settle in an instant, doing what could be that expression America has been talking about since Wednesday.

 

 

Sitting in his seat, America gets a strange feeling of cold in six random spots in his body. He rubs his neck and shrugs it off - he has been getting these strange cold spots for a second since Friday, about 4 times by now. Maybe 5 times. He forgets.

 

 

 

It’s probably nothing anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry mum and NSA


End file.
